Exit Stiles, Stage Floor Exhausted
by eirenical
Summary: It wasn't until Scott tugged the blankets out from under him and manhandled him up onto the pillows, wasn't until Scott subsequently turned away to turn off the lights and leave, that Stiles called out to stay his leaving. He wouldn't sleep. Not like this. He needed… he needed… he didn't know iwhat/i he needed, but Scott leaving wasn't it. (Sciles/sequely to Op. on Instinct)


**Exit Stiles, Stage Floor... Exhausted** (2174 words) by **Renee-chan**  
**Chapters:** 1/1  
**Fandom:** Teen Wolf (TV)  
**Rating:** Mature  
**Warnings:** No Archive Warnings Apply  
**Relationships:** Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski  
**Characters:** Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey, Lydia Martin, Peter Hale  
**Additional Tags:** Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Frottage, Sleepy Sex, Sleepy Cuddles, Exhaustion, Stress Relief, Friendship/Love, Established Relationship, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Not Canon Compliant, Not Past Season 2 Anyway  
**Series:** Part 3 of Operating on Instinct

**Summary:**  
Lydia snapped her fingers behind her and waved someone over from the other room. While she waited, she took the opportunity to pry Stiles' hands loose from the file he was still clutching so tightly. Once she had extracted it from his hold and pushed him back into his seat when he tried to retrieve it, she said, "I'll look into this. You sleep. When you're rested, we'll figure it out." She then turned and smiled at the person she had summoned. "Perfect timing, Scott. Go tuck him into bed and get him to sleep for a few hours, will you?"

Scott's eyes widened at that demand and Stiles' belligerent expression. "And how exactly am I supposed to do that? Sit on him?"

**_July 30, 2013:_** So... I felt like writing porn tonight, but no one character was talking to me. So, I tossed out a prompt meme on my tumblr and LJ, hoping to be inspired to write little porny things. I should know better by now. I don't know how to write "little" anything. Over 2000 words later... here we are. -.-;;;

_The prompt:_ Teen Wolf, the pack makes Stiles take a nap. (Inspired by all the gifs of sleepy Dylan at SDCC)

...and that somehow became a sequel-y type thing to _Operating on Instinct_. I don't even know. -.-;;; Enjoy? ^_^

* * *

_**Exit Stiles, Stage Floor... Exhausted**_  
by _Renee-chan (eirenical)_

* * *

"Stiles."

"Stiles."

"_Stiles_."

"**_Stiles!_**"

Stiles jerked his head up from the floor, still caught halfway between the endless details of incident reports and autopsy files and a confused dream of Allison and Scott feeding him grapes while Lydia and Derek quizzed him on forensic blood splatter patterns. "Huh? Whazzat? Who- Isaac?"

Isaac dropped his hand to rub lightly at Stiles' back before helping him back up into the chair he'd fallen out of. "Yeah. Stiles… this will keep. You should get some rest."

Stubbornly shaking his head, Stiles didn't even dignify that with an answer. Of course, it couldn't keep. People were dying. People were dying and his father had actually asked for his help- well. 'Asked' might be too strong a word. He hadn't objected, anyway. Then again, he may just not have missed the files, yet. Either way, he hadn't said 'No' and Stiles knew that he was needed and he couldn't just walk away. This might not be a werewolf thing, but it was important. It was- His father needed his help. Stiles couldn't just walk away from that - whether his father realized he was being helped or not.

Isaac sighed, but backed off. He knew better than to argue with Stiles when he got in a mood like this. He'd go off, get reinforcements, and that was just fine with Stiles because it meant he would have peace for a while. He turned back to the latest autopsy report, skipping quickly past the pictures for now, focusing on the text. Only, the text refused to come into focus. He squinted, moved the paper closer, then further away, then closer, again. No matter what he did, his eyes refused to bring the words into focus. Those words might as well have been in Russian for all he was able to decipher from them.

As Stiles closed his eyes briefly, and pinched the bridge of his nose, someone yanked the file out of his lax grip. "Hey! I was reading that!"

A snort. "No, you weren't. You were staring off into space in its general direction while you fought the need to fall on your nose. What's so important, anyway?"

Stiles turned to scowl at Isaac, who fed him back an unrepentant grin in response. Stiles turned back to Peter and made a grab for the file. Peter kept it just out of reach, turning away from Stiles every move as he read the report for himself. When he'd finished, he tossed the report back towards Stiles and shrugged. "Seems straightforward to me. Straightforward enough that the police shouldn't need your help." He turned away. "Isaac's worried. A worried Isaac is a pest and I'm in no mood. Get some sleep so he'll stop harassing everyone." Peter paused, then turned back, added as an afterthought, "…please." He was out the door and heading back upstairs before Stiles even had a chance to respond.

Isaac whined under his breath as Stiles turned back to reading the reports and Stiles casually flipped him the finger. The problem was that though these looked like simply B & E's gone wrong, if you looked closely enough, there was a pattern. It was subtle, hard to trace, but it was _there_. Stiles just knew it. And if he could find it, he could help his father catch whoever was doing this. He _could_.

Isaac's third attempt at forcing Stiles from his work was more subtle… subtle like a ton of bricks. A slow, firm tap-tap-tap-tap-tap drew Stiles' attention from the papers spread out around him at the table to the hypnotic movement of one patent leather-clad foot. Stiles stared for a moment, mesmerized, as that foot continued to lift and lower, lift and lower… lift and lower. After giving him a moment, a minute, an hour, a lifetime, to be hypnotized by that movement, someone gave him a sharp tap on the shoulder and a fist opened, palm up, right in front of his face. "Hand it over, Stiles."

"Lydia…" Stiles groaned, throwing one hand in the air and clutching the file tightly to his chest with the other. "I can do this. You know I can do this. I'm almost there. I just need another few minutes."

Though Lydia's eyes were sympathetic, her posture was rigid as she said, "No doubt that would be true if you were anywhere near the top of your game. You're smart, Stiles, but right now… you're not. Sleep deprivation makes for slow wits and yours are like sludge right now. I can see it in your eyes. You need sleep."

Lydia snapped her fingers behind her and waved someone over from the other room. While she waited, she took the opportunity to pry Stiles' hands loose from the file he was still clutching so tightly. Once she had extracted it from his hold and pushed him back into his seat when he tried to retrieve it, she said, "I'll look into this. You sleep. When you're rested, we'll figure it out." She then turned and smiled at the person she had summoned. "Perfect timing, Scott. Go tuck him into bed and get him to sleep for a few hours, will you?"

Scott's eyes widened at that demand and Stiles' belligerent expression. "And how exactly am I supposed to do that? Sit on him?"

Lydia simply smirked and shrugged. "If that's what it takes… then have fun!" She turned, then, scooped up the rest of the files, ignored Stiles' indignant squawk about destroying his organizational system, and left the room. Exit Lydia, stage right… triumphant. Damn it.

Scott turned to look back at Stiles, lips twitched upwards in a pained grin, eyes shining with a barely-there hope that Stiles would cooperate… and the experience of too many sleepless school nights spending hour after hour level grinding so that _this_ time they'd finally beat the boss level, arguing that the only way Stiles was going to bed and staying there was if he really wanted to go. And the scowl firmly fixed on Stiles' face made it clear that he most certainly did _not_ want to go.

Scott dropped down on one knee in front of Stiles, acknowledged Stiles' raised eyebrow at that positioning with a sheepish grin of his own, and simply said, "You're exhausted. We can all see it. Let me take care of you for a while and when you wake up… we'll all help you figure this out. Please, Stiles? For me?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, could you two _be_ any sappier?"

Stiles flipped Isaac the finger once more, but otherwise ignored him, choosing instead to reach out and let Scott take firm possession of his free hand. "OK, bro. For you. Just this once." Because I'm so fucking exhausted I can't tell up from down, anymore, Stiles thought, but they don't need to know that.

Scott pulled Stiles to his feet, smiling so widely that if he had a tail, it'd be wagging for sure by now. It didn't take much coaxing from there to get Stiles up the stairs to Scott's bedroom - his house having become a sort of headquarters for the duration of this current crisis - and onto the bed. Stiles immediately flopped over and turned his head into the pillow, only stirring again when he felt hands on his ankles.

"Huh? Scott? What're you doing?" Stiles was too tired for this. He really was. Now that he'd caved to the inevitable and his brain had tentatively accepted that it was going to be allowed offline for an hour or two - no more than that, he couldn't afford more than that, his father and the next victims couldn't afford more that that, there was too much to be _done_ - Stiles didn't care about going to bed properly. He just wanted to be horizontal for a while. Hell, the floor would have sufficed by then.

Scott petted his ankle, hands soft upon it as he lifted Stiles' foot into his lap. It took Stiles several long seconds of puzzling out the gentle shifts and tugs to understand that Scott was untying his shoes and pulling them off his feet, following that up with pulling his socks off, as well. He barely noticed. He was too busy trying to get his brain to shut the fuck up. There were too many thoughts clamoring for his attention - timelines, motives, blood splatter patterns, crime scene inventories, lists of suspects… fuck, he couldn't turn it off.

Raising his arms, Stiles pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes until kaleidoscopic sparks of purple and yellow lights overtook the darkness. He watched the geometric patterns swirl over and over inside his closed eyelids, barely noticing when Scott moved up from his feet to his hips, gently unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down and off, as well. It wasn't until Scott tugged the blankets out from under him and manhandled him up onto the pillows, wasn't until Scott subsequently turned away to turn off the lights and leave, that Stiles called out to stay his leaving. He wouldn't sleep. Not like this. He needed… he needed… he didn't know _what_ he needed, but Scott leaving wasn't it.

Scott turned back, his silhouette barely a blurred outline in the dark, making it impossible for Stiles to read the look on his face. Stiles pushed himself upright, once again mashing the heels of his hands into his closed eyes. He let out a soft whimper. "I can't shut it _off_. I should be working, not sleeping. Scott-"

Stiles got no further than that before Scott was back on the bed, warm arms enfolding him, breath warm against his face as Scott nuzzled into his hair. It was one of his more wolfly traits - this scent business. It had become a thing with them after Gerard had kidnapped Stiles a year or so back - 10 months, 19 days, 8 hours, but really, who was counting? - and Stiles no longer found it weird. He mostly just found it oddly endearing, like a lot of Scott's habits - his tendency to bounce on his toes when excited, the way he would trap his tongue between his teeth whenever he was focused upon something difficult, the way he would curl into Stiles' side and bump his head up under Stiles' chin when he was feeling playful. It was just another quirk, just another thing that made Scott Scott… and Stiles loved it.

Lowering himself slowly backwards, Stiles let his head loll to the side, giving Scott access to his neck. Scott buried his face there, pressing his nose into that soft spot just beneath the corner of Stiles' jaw. And even as Scott was inhaling deep of that scent which was purely Stiles, his hand was already traveling downward, tracing Stiles through the fabric of his boxers, gauging potential interest.

Stiles was barely half-hard, fatigue overwhelming even a teenager's interest in sex, but the feel of Scott's hand sliding through the slit in his boxers and gently cupping him was more than enough to begin reviving that interest. Scott smirked as he felt Stiles hardening in his hand, growing thicker and longer with each stroke. It wasn't long before Stiles was clinging to Scott, one leg wrapped around him as he rocked up into Scott's curled hand.

Scott, face still firmly pressed into the crook of Stiles' neck, reached his other hand down and unzipped his own fly, and pushed down his underwear, freeing himself from its confines with a sigh of relief. Moments later, he had them both in hand, aligning them so they could move against each other. The pace was slow, and almost painfully uncoordinated, because Stiles was so far gone in his exhaustion as to be more of a hindrance than a help, but eventually Scott got them into some semblance of a working rhythm.

They moved against each other, Stiles drifting in and out, the pleasure sparking inside him bringing him back to himself only occasionally. By the time Scott spilled against him, easing their movements, Stiles was no longer running on overdrive, couldn't even remember why he'd wanted to stay awake to begin with. Scott was asking him a question, though, and that must be important - Scott was _always_ important - but Stiles could barely manage more than to mumble something nonsensical in response. Scott huffed out a soft laugh against his neck and reached down to take Stiles in hand, again. And Stiles… didn't even notice. Having finally achieved that blessed inner silence, Stiles had rolled over, one leg still tangled with Scott's, and trapping Scott's hand beneath him, still wrapped gently around him… and that was how he finally fell asleep.

Scott curled protectively around Stiles, shifting his hand just enough so as to not accidentally do him damage while they slept. There'd be time enough for that when they woke. Pressing his nose back into the crook of Stiles' neck, Scott smiled. Practice might not have yet made perfect, but Stiles was _his_ imperfection… and he liked him that way.


End file.
